Poem #07
I yearn to be in a better place
Where the cool breeze can brush upon my face
And the fresh dew is the first thing I notice in the morning.
A place of gentle hills and clear skies that seem as if they call out your name
Where the forests grow tall
And only the sounds of songbirds and whispering winds can be heard
I seek a place within the arms of the world we were given
Not the one we made